The albums we owned defined the people we were. We ate baby carrots instead of baby rabbits. I bought you puzzles with enough pieces to correspond to the number of days I bought you puzzles. A person who regularly loses consciousness while in the hospital is not the authority on the number and length of visits she has received. When I ate eggs, you said I might as well eat a baby rabbit. When you told me your father forced you to eat baby rabbits as a child, I knew I wasn't supposed to say anything. The coat my mother bought you for Christmas that we burned on New Year's Eve. The stream we walked along but never waded in. I said things about the things you told me not to call things. The sunsets I never took you to while you were conscious. I ate everything on my plate, but called it everyone. You would only shop at stores without windows. The possibilities I counted corresponded to the number of days I counted possibilities. When you asked if you remembered where we met, you said halfway. I borrowed things that weren't money but that I called money so as not to call them things. My hands were consistently drier than your hands. Your little sister was taller than you. You were ashamed of the hands you held. My dad was consistently shorter than you. The songs we sung defined the people we were. I learned the difference between a gift and a convenience. Your breakfast chair broke its arm. I scooped it from the ground like a baby rabbit I wasn't going to eat. I believed you could never leave because every doorway you walked through was another entrance to where you were going. I believed we were every doorway you walked through. Remember the bird, not that one. Remember when you said the only thing you can't avoid is death and birds. The day your sister broke her arm against a bird's beak, that bird. The career path my father chose. You would never stand on your head and drink water when your hiccups returned. I became obsessed with the evolution of the V-neck. You sharpened the edges of my level. The things that happened were not the things I called them. Your mouth widened more often. I would sew baby-rabbit-sized pockets inside your coat if I knew how to sew and if we hadn't burned your coat. I would widen my mouth to match. You would become what you always were. I would dislocate an arm. We would remember what we forgot. You would relocate my arm instead of your job. My mouth only opened wide enough to eat lettuce. I kept forgetting to wash the lettuce. No one was left to remind me to wash the lettuce. I sat in the breakfast chair with the broken arm.